


to settle the sum

by pluviales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluviales/pseuds/pluviales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <strong>les amis as underground 1950s street racers in a conservative French inner city; enjolras/grantaire racing to sort out a wager</strong><br/></p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em><span class="small">“Maybe you’re right, dear Enjolras – perhaps it brings a smile to my face to see yours redden so.”</span></em><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	to settle the sum

**Author's Note:**

> **[note: there is alcohol use and smoking in this fic]**

  

**part i**

 

Whistling and ripping past the ears of the boys, its piercing shrieks akin to a hell-bound banshee, the wind tore by as savagely as the cars did along the grey stretch of asphalt. Their drivers gripped the steering wheels with such immense determination it drained their knuckles to a ghostly white; the skin covering them stretched so, it felt as though it would snap at any given moment. Sweat gleaned the brows of each young man, reflecting the glint cast upon them by the dim milkiness of the moon. A heavy musk had gathered in the rambunctious parking lot out of this perspiration, the sour smell mingling with an excitement which left it to be ignored. The race raged on.

It was hard to judge, in truth, who was winning: one vehicle would nudge ahead, its tyres flashing ignited for a split second as the rubber screeched against the asphalt, only to be overtaken within six half-seconds by the other. The drivers swore at each other as they careered around bends, dodging thick bollards and sending great whooshes of exhaust smoke billowing. All the while they were cheered on by their friends, a rowdy crowd of student boys who had each displayed their allegiance to the racing gang with a streak of ruby upon their jackets. This crowd was the infamous band of rebels within their conservative inner city community, the young men who spent their time in loud and loutish protest of the authority figures whom they believed dictated their lives. The epoch was, after all, the nineteen-fifties – tensions were raging between the generations, a civil war roaring between those of the world’s past, and those rattling into its future. This particular bunch of youths was of the fighters for the latter group, these new spitfires who rode the peak of the wave of change, always scouting ahead for the dawn of their generation’s liberation.

One such display of their moral rebellion was through these vehicle races. Usually, the participants' cars had been picked up at vehicle compacting sites, on the verge of being destroyed. This method of obtaining them could, in truth, be considered theft – but the young rebels did not view it in that light: in their shining eyes, what belonged to the government did also by right belong to them in some way; it was perfectly acceptable for them to put to good use what would otherwise have lain to waste. An unofficial rota determined who was to take part in the road battles on each semi-regular occasion. This night, it was a particularly heated match; the men so close one could mistake them as one, Joly and Bossuet, had been pitted against each other. This had caused quite a stir, an almighty rift between the remainder of the group: as the pair had been so closely together, when they were not able to be perceived as a double-act, which man were the others to cheer for? Approximately one half had declared their allegiance to Joly, the other to Bossuet; a few remained uncertain, and were chastised for their inability to decide while those who had picked a side fought their own race of words and jibes.

These two teams were unofficially headed by equally vehement flag-bearers: the lead supporter of Joly was Enjolras, a typically wise choice of his – it was well acknowledged and jested at within the group that Bossuet was burdened with uncannily abhorrent luck. In a drunken cockiness Grantaire, therefore, despite being close to both, had taken it upon himself to champion Bossuet. Both sides were plenty, the numbers well-divided, and their play battle had intensified to the point of bursting as the race had begun. In their position at the ad hoc finishing-line, in clear view of the improvised track, the two squads exchanged swift quips as to the outcome.

“I swear by it, Grantaire,” called Enjolras over the din, as he tied up his blond hair in hot-cheeked exasperation, “that you have taken opposition purely to irk me.” This was an accusation whose accuracy was plain as the young man’s own straight nose, but his grinning rival disputed the claim with raised eyebrows.

“Maybe you’re right, dear Enjolras – perhaps it brings a smile to my face to see yours redden so.”

With this he raised his beer bottle to the blond in a mock toast, before raising it to his lips and taking a swig. Enjolras huffed and turned his eyes back to the course, but on him Grantaire’s remained fixed. The race furthered, still neck-to-neck even with only three laps left to complete. The lot was ablaze with noise. Heavily intoxicated by this point, Grantaire’s cheekiness was only increased by the mounting pressure.

“Enjolras!” It was his turn to call. “I fancy a wager.”

This bold suggestion caused a bout of laughter to swell through the party; Enjolras turned with curiosity to his friend, whose face was still adorned with a smirk. “A wager? Of what  _terms,_ Grantaire?” he asked, voice heavy yet undeniably amused.

Grantaire drummed his fingers upon his bristly cheek in an act of pert dramatics. “Oh, I can't fathom that out for certain just yet. Perhaps you can help – let's say that Bossuet chances to win. Following this excitement, I say my team deserves a reward.”

“Bah!” interjected Enjolras, indignation flaring up within him. “Reward? For spouting drunken encouragements? That to you is a hobby, Grantaire, not something worthy of payment.”

“Oh? And what about you? Certainly if Joly were to seize victory now, you'd appreciate some recognition for your accurate prediction.” Grantaire understood how to appeal to Enjolras; a set of tricks he had mastered early on. Though generally out of annoyance, Enjolras bent to him more often than he would readily admit. Such an instance was now – with a deep sigh, the blond waved his hand, murmuring for Grantaire to continue. “I say,” he obliged, repeating, “we strike up a wager. If our Bossuet wins, you owe me a debt of three hundred francs.”

“Three hundred francs!” Though the sum was not excessively steep, those on the side of Enjolras and Joly roared in protest, however their racket was extinguished by their ambitious leader: “So long as if Joly and I win, vice versa remains true… it's a deal.”

At this, the parking lot erupted.

*

It was to become a farce, the gods had decided, as the front fenders of both Joly _and_ Bossuet’s cars crossed the finishing line simultaneously, resulting in uproar: some of the boy students fell about with mirth, clutching their stomachs, eyes streaming; what shambles! For both racers to win, and with the price of three hundred francs weighing on their victory at that. Others remained stock-still, eyes fixed upon the cloud of dirt which had rolled upwards in a mushroom as the cars whooshed by the finish, their brakes squealing. The jaws of these boys had slackened, with their minds unable to fully process the tie – this unruly racing club had never seen one in its entire span; it was unbelievable. But amidst those marvelling in the misfortune and those caught agape by it stood two other beings, their faces unreadable as their eyes locked first on the other, then on the champions exiting their vehicles.

“Grantaire, for this you will have hell to pay,” pointed Enjolras, his tone burdened by exasperation.

“Oh, no! _You_ will have three hundred francs to pay, dear Enjolras.” Chuckling at his jest, Grantaire hopped down from his vantage point and sauntered over to the returning racers, bending to pick up two bottles of beer from a bucket of ice as he made his way. He uncapped them with his teeth, spitting the lids into the air in a grand arc before handing the bottles over to his friends. “Excellent race,” he chortled, slapping the backs of Joly and Bossuet in turn, “absolutely gripping. Would have been nice for there to have been an outcome, but I suppose I never could pin down which of you bests the other!” Bossuet laughed, Joly raised his eyebrows with a smile, and standing between the two Grantaire took each of their free hands as they paused before the watching crowd. Raising their arms up in the air, he dipped them into a sweeping bow, grinning at the thunder of stamps and whoops which followed.

Only one member of the boisterous party remained quiet, and that was Enjolras. He was standing with deep worry-lines etched into his forehead, neat brows drawn together. Grantaire caught his eye, patted his friends’ backs once more then walked towards where the sulking blond and Combeferre were standing in high discussion. His departure was in good timing - no sooner had he turned away than Musichetta, who had fiercely argued her way into being admitted to watch the boys race, flew towards them, showering them in kisses. Grantaire heard their surprised grunts and chuckled as he neared new company. “Enjolras, Enjolras,” said he, with eyebrows lifted in what could be mockery, “you worry too much. Stand down, have a beer. I’ll join you.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough for the day, Grantaire. And you’ve got some nerve, chastising me for worrying so when the wager of three hundred francs hangs above our heads.”

Flapping a hand, Grantaire shook his head groggily. “Relax, relax. It'll be settled in good time. What do you think, Combeferre? Any thoughts on our dilemma?”

Combeferre took a moment to survey the minor crisis, turning it over in his mind while he glanced between the two young men. “One, at least,” he at last offered, quite hesitant. Using the beer bottle he was holding Grantaire gestured for him to continue, and Combeferre adjusted his thick horn-rimmed spectacles. “Well, you could settle the matter in our group’s favoured style, traditionally – you could race to settle the sum.”

This idea of Combeferre’s was ingenious; what better way? Besides, there were no races scheduled to follow the tryst of Joly and Bossuet any time soon, lending the solution a great deal of convenience. Grantaire seemed to like it very much indeed, his eyes sparkling with devilish mischief at once. Even the corner of Enjolras’ lips turned up into the plucked harp string of a smile, however slight.

In this way, the resolution was destined to be agreed upon the moment it turned from Combeferre’s tongue: a second race to be won – one which promised to be equally hell-raising and nail-biting as this latest, indeed. 

* * *

 

 

**part ii**

The following week flew by as if upon Icarus’ wings, the tensions it carried sailing to burning-hot heights. For this race, our group of boys found themselves even more anxiously split than before; most suspected Enjolras, their respected and determined leader, would take the victory – yet many had their doubts, claiming Grantaire would win out of sheer drunkard’s luck. Some did not wish to stand against Enjolras, though, in apprehension of his terrible broodiness, a sour trait they had come to endure as being an irrefutable part of the natural-born crusader. If he was not to win, they assumed quite rightly that the violent sulk which would follow would be one of truly epic proportion; one member of the party – Courfeyrac, the quote was attested to – quipped that it would be of such magnitude that Virgil would be summoned from his grave to pen a new Aeneid.

Joking aside, though, the competition was heated and fierce. Enjolras simmered whilst Grantaire sauntered, and the two did not speak for the entire duration of the week. Inwardly, though it wouldn’t be suspected from his markedly brazen behaviour around the others, this silence panged Grantaire’s stomach: he was used to Enjolras’ sighs and rolls of the eye, to his pouts and huffs and periods of stagnancy toward him, yet this coldness cut too close to the skin. If this play farce of a race really was to damage their state of being beyond repair, was it worth it? Grantaire was not one to worry, yet he registered the knot in his gut on the morrow of the showdown.

This knot only tangled further as the sun swept across the sky, leaving his intestines irrevocably twisted by the time it had set completely. Beaming before his friends, however, not a soul would even suppose it; bottle in hand, he was brash as ever. A slim cigarette waggled between his smiling lips as he lay stretched out upon the hood of the vehicle he’d chosen: certainly a pretty conveyance in its day, the car was now bashed and bruised on the hubcaps and proudly displayed a great dipped dent in its roof. Feuilly, the mechanic – who always remained impartial during such racing rows out of honour, he insisted, due to him being a ‘professional man’ – had even had to replace a tyre, it being so poorly affixed.

When Bahorel, allying himself with Grantaire purely for the comedy of it, enquired as to why he’d selected such an inferior vehicle, the answer came: “An inferior charioteer doesn’t deserve thoroughbred horses! This vehicle suits its driver. I'll anoint it as being truly Grantaire!” and on that exclamation, Grantaire had leapt to the car’s rear, and smashed his bottle across it like he was christening a vessel setting out to sea. This had brought on hearty laughter, the jollity not fully faded by the time Enjolras arrived with his own party. Grantaire tossed his cigarette into the dirt and spun round as they approached, cheerily waving to the oncoming boys.

Enjolras’ car was the glaring opposite of his opponent’s, queerly echoing their egos in reality. He had taken great pride in fixing the vehicle he’d found, a sturdy, red-glossed thing with all parts still working healthily. That one participant’s car was much more well-endowed than the other was not, as one may expect, a violation of terms; as was established prior, the students obtained their vehicles from the local scrapping-plant: only one rule persisted in this selection process, and that was that it must be sourced from there alone. Other qualities to the car were irrelevant, for anything was permitted. Said rule of ‘anything goes’ is what made Grantaire’s substandard choice stand out so starkly. As he watched Enjolras’ eyes fall upon it, he saw the fall of his chest – disappointment, perhaps. Like the others, he must have fallen to the belief that Grantaire’s bad picking was a cocky exhibition of defiance, rather than what it could, perhaps more accurately, be understood as: self-inflicted martyrdom, a sabotage of his own doing. Though his head denied it, the liquor seeping through his wetted brain insisting that he wanted to win, and to be loud about it, too, his heart protested outright – he simply didn't want Enjolras to lose. Even when in battle against him, he still revered his _amour_ greater than any other. It was pitiful, in truth, that he couldn’t manage to be even a cynic properly enough, but Enjolras was worth his failure. As Grantaire looked upon him now, the worry creases still folding his forehead, he understood that.

Skittering out to stand between the two parties, Courfeyrac hooted with laughter. He found the entire scenario to be of the utmost amusement, and had not wiped off his dozy grin from the moment he’d heard about the second race. Clapping his hands together now, he bobbed up and down on the spot dizzyingly and called the gathering to order. “Men!” he howled, staggering about in the gap between his friends. “If you would be so ready as to take up your marks!”

This preliminary introduction to the race was met with a stamping of feet with such ferocity that the very air surrounding the students appeared to rumble and shake; it was a drum-roll of boots, building up the gleeful anticipation to a near unbearable climax. Enjolras, Grantaire, and a few volunteers of the two, rolled their vehicles to the starting line. Six laps of the course had been predetermined as the procedure, with the first man to cross on the final time round being the winner. This youth was then owed the sum of three hundred francs by his crushed opponent, Courfeyrac relayed in ludicrously dramatic tones to the buzzing boys around him, though each by this point had the rules memorised to heart: this race, after all, had been the topic at the forefront of excitable discussion for six straight days.

In position, the front wheel of his car just toeing the starting line, Grantaire performed a sweeping bow to the watching audience before hopping into the driver’s seat with a flourish and slamming the door. Enjolras entered his vehicle as well, and the pair began to rev their engines as the seconds before the race was to start ticked by.

As Feuilly stepped out onto the track, standing between them with an empty ale casket raised high above his head, the rest of the group hollered a countdown. Grantaire used the precious time he had left to glance at Enjolras: his hands were curled tightly around his steering-wheel, the muscles of his neck and jaw pulsing and flexing fitfully. His eyes appeared to be fixed firmly on the track extending out before them, but Grantaire could swear that his peripherals lay elsewhere – namely, in his own direction. His eyes darted away as the crowd’s chant reached ‘ _UN!_ ’ – and with a great roar Feuilly smashed the barrel upon the floor, splitting the wood and sending planks flying.

Feet hit pedals, tyres squealed, and it began.

The race was a desperate one, each gunner veering wildly around the track and not daring to miss a single turn – so much weighed down upon their shoulders that losing out due to foolish error would be a travesty. It began with tangible urgency, the speed and sounds deafening; both engines heated until they whined and squealed, the exhausts spluttering for breath, the bodies of the cars trembling and rattling as they were shaken about so violently across the track. In fact, this race was driven with such haste that even the rooting spectators found themselves in need of leaping backwards as the cars sped past them on the opening lap.

Inside the vehicles, however, the race passed much more slowly – in his cab, Grantaire watched the battle unfold as an intricate ballet: either he or Enjolras would nudge their car a little forward, the first step. Then the second motion to follow was a groaning of machinery as the other pressed their own vehicle to clear the lagging gap which they would not allow to widen. _Répètons._. As he danced this routine with Enjolras, the pair on anxiously level pegging, a sweat broke out upon his brow; his shirt and waistcoat clung to his chest as the sweltering conditions within the car’s front cab only intensified with each passing lap.

It was curious, this race, in terms of ability – as the leader of the party, it was generally considered that Enjolras was the natural better racer, too. Bahorel came close, his driving brutal and determined, yet neither seemed as nimble behind the wheel as Grantaire could be. Perhaps it was his fencing talent bearing through, making his driving delicate as the stabs of his foil. The reasons for his driving talent were unknown, in truth, and barely acknowledged within the group. This is most likely because they were hampered constantly by his lack of sobriety, not to mention his fondness for a smoke. The drink and nicotine often made his car wobble as it made him wobble. But what did Grantaire care of it?, the others would speculate. Hiccups always punctuated his sentences, so frequently that they had come to be understood as a core part of him. Grantaire worried for nothing and cared for nothing, it was agreed. Only the man himself knew this was not fully so, but who was to know? Certainly not the sole object of his care, whose car was at this moment beginning to slip behind the drunkard’s as they swept into the penultimate lap.

Grantaire recognized that it was time to stumble in the dance, else he would win it. Keeping one hand firmly clasping the steering-wheel, he used his free one to pick up a half-empty bottle of beer lying in his lap. A feeling of nauseous self derision rolled up his abdomen; he was scorning himself in his chosen method of failure. But was that not Grantaire? His story was all about failure, disappointment and cynicism. To lose to drink was the irony, it presenting up a metaphor deeper than the trivial idiocy it would be perceived as. He lifted the bottle, felt its coldness against his lips. One swig and the thing was empty; Grantaire flung it to the passenger space beside him and heard it roll off, disappearing beneath the tatty foam seat. His driving had faltered the moment he’d removed his hand to draw the bottle, but not dramatically – it was enough, though, to permit Enjolras a narrow lead. Pressing his foot to the car pedals harder, Grantaire’s revving suggested to the crowd that he really was trying to catch up, yet it was of course in vain: as Enjolras just nicked him past the finishing line, and the watching crowd deafened his ears, Grantaire breathed a soft sigh of relief.

Both cars partook in the additional lap which was required to cautiously slow their vehicles down. Enjolras braked to a halt first, and leapt from the car. He was swarmed instantly by the others, who bore down upon him and slapped his back and cheeks and the roof of his car. Grantaire paused before exiting his own vehicle; he watched the broad grin break out across Enjolras’ proud, yet humbly flushed cheeks, and it brought a bittersweet smile to his own face. When he did step out of the car he did so clapping, and laughing heartily as – courtesy of Courfeyrac – the blond man was hoisted up onto the shoulders of his friends. Many sought him out, too, rushing over to offer their condolences and teasing in good spirit. Grantaire answered them merrily, winking and joking as though he lacked a care in the world. Nobody appeared to have noticed his beer trick, thankfully, and he took solace in this: Enjolras deserved the ability to relish his victory.

After a long while, the party settled, reaching the point of the evening whereupon they would start up a great, blazing bonfire and lounge in dribs around it; some swung their legs on the bonnet of a parked-up car, others simply lay on the asphalt. Enjolras, as the night’s winner, had been gifted the honour of setting the bonfire alight – his face shimmered fiercely as the flames danced upon his skin, reflecting in his wide, heavy-lidded eyes. It was a genial atmosphere all round, the chatter flowing with ease.

Grantaire had stolen away from the festivities shortly after the bonfire was ignited, finding a low stretch of brick wall not too far outside of the ring of trucks and cars. There he’d been perched for some minutes, a cigarette between his teeth and a bottle in hand, sitting with one eye upon his friends and the other on the stars. He once thought them all but extinguished, yet tonight they glittered quite ardently. He didn't hear the approaching footsteps, nor feel the change in the wind – the first he knew of Enjolras’ arrival came when he heard the amusement-lined voice beside him:

“Grantaire, you are a damn fiend if ever I knew one.”

Lowering the drink from his lips, Grantaire looked to Enjolras. A ruby tulip had been tucked behind his ear, parting the golden ringlets; a touch of Jehan’s, most likely. It was charming indeed, and lent Grantaire to chuckle. He hesitated a moment, before shrugging – there was no point in avoiding this confrontation. “Oh, yes, that I'll readily confess to. But I'm not so without reason.”

Enjolras’ brows drew together. “What do you mean? That you chose for me to win that race?”

“That's exactly what I did, _mon trésor_ , and the fates allowed it,” answered Grantaire, raising the cigarette to his mouth for another drag. To his surprise, before the lips it rested against could part to inhale, another set of fingers closed around the rolled bundle of tobacco. Enjolras plucked it carefully from him, stubbing the cigarette out upon the wall they both sat atop.

“Don’t, Grantaire." His tone was thick, but softened as he added in what was close to a plea, "Not tonight.” A specific sadness laced his voice heavily, more so than the authoritarian discipline it permanently carried. This sadness was brewed of concern, yet it was more particular than a general worry; this sadness was personal – born of the heart. In gently commanding him to stop, Enjolras was not quoting from his usual straight-edged doctrine: he genuinely cared for Grantaire to put down the stick which only hurt his health. Oh! This was a marvel to Grantaire, whose head jerked to follow the path of Enjolras’ hand as his cigarette was put out, astounded. It is a wonder indeed how such a small action can have such a weighty significance; in this wonder, Grantaire was at that moment deeply swirling.

A few moments passed of silence, before Enjolras spoke again. “But now you're left with the debt. Did you not think of that when you took up that drink?” His latter remark was tinged with a frustrated confusion, the tone increasingly fraught. “Why did you do it, Grantaire? Why did you martyr yourself so? I thought to myself, ‘perhaps he enjoys it, the self sabotage’, but that isn't you. I know you, and one to desist willingly you are not.”

Grantaire’s head was pounding, his heart a frenzy. He did not know quite what to say; moreover, he was not certain how to say it. “You pinned me right, Enjolras," he confessed, accompanying his words with a upward flick of the corner of his lips. "I'm stubborn as Poseidon, that much is true – but here, I didn’t act as he. Here, I acted for you.” A pause followed, during which Grantaire moved a hand to rake through his slicked, dark curls. “I couldn't bear to see you fail, Enjolras. It would have damaged my spirits, and your spirits, unbearably much. And I don't care about the cost of my meddling, either: I’m already a broke man, this debt is just another to owe. I happily owe it to you.”

Enjolras was moved. Sharply in the pits of his chest, he’d been feeling a tugging gripe since the nonsensical wager was first proposed; an inexorable fret. The reason he’d been so up in arms against the steep sum was entirely due to the potential case of his victory – it would mean Grantaire’s loss. See, Enjolras moved his head away too often on purpose, deliberately turning a nonchalant eye away from this ranting man. Yet in truth, Grantaire made him shiver. Here was a man who knew equally as well as he did what his attitude was to this life’s misgivings – but here, also, was a man who turned to terrible, numbing practices to dispel this knowledge. Where Enjolras delivered rousing speeches, Grantaire stained his lips with wine and waved his hand in dismissal; where Enjolras stood barefacedly selfless, Grantaire abandoned those who relied on him. He loudly and proudly declared his non-allegiance with the world – with his parents, with the heavens, with everything.

Yet Enjolras knew this selfishness was not fully true, for the façade glimmered in the dark-haired man’s eye as it remained fixed upon his own. This gaze pierced him directly and sharply; this gaze was what caused his head to bend away. For it filled Enjolras with a fear: he knew that if he let this gaze linger, if he returned its revealing passion, it would turn him from absolute selflessness. It would betray him to himself. Enjolras had denounced devotion in favour of justice, and everyone knew it – thus in meeting Grantaire’s eyes, he had thought he would be deserting his duty.

Now, however, Enjolras met them indeed. He did not, could not, look away as Grantaire concluded, his voice fused with such sincerity that it pressed a weight upon Enjolras’ quivering soul: “So if I am, as you so often insist, a fiendish drunkard; you supply the absinthe.”

That was what finished him, wholly and completely. All persistence of his duties to justice was abandoned to the breeze momentarily as Enjolras’ heart at last usurped his mind: before he fully realised it, he leaned forward; his lips pressed to Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire's face moved towards him in surprise, his lips curving up against Enjolras' cheek, and the blond found himself at once condemned to this new passion. Yet he did not fret, for once, as he felt Grantaire brush his cheek beneath his artist’s fingertips. Enjolras kept his eyes closed to prolong the moment a fraction further. Then he nodded, face carrying a certain glow, and pulled back, sitting up straight on the wall and clearing his throat.

“Grantaire,” he murmured lowly, smiling deftly with his lungs still full of the cynic’s warm breath, “I don’t believe you still owe me those winnings.” He hopped down lithely from the wall and moved a hand to his ear, noticing the tulip to have vanished - spinning back to find it, he noticed it pinched at the stem by a smiling Grantaire and frowned.

"Here," Grantaire chuckled as he threw the flower down to him. "This is for you."

Enjolras caught it and rolled his eyes, turning away with a coy smile. " _Batârd_."

**Author's Note:**

> so what initially began as a light-hearted trivial e/r ficlet actually became quite a bittersweet study of their relationship towards the end part of it, particularly concerning enjolras. i enjoyed it, though!! it was the sort of fic which writes itself, so that's always refreshing
> 
> the idea came to me completely unexpectedly as an offhand thought really, but it wouldn't go away so i decided i might as well write it. hopefully i managed to get their characterisation correct, as well as that of the amis - it was so bizarre and quite challenging to try writing in a hugo-esque manner of speech and prose whilst keeping pace with the more "modern" (ish) racing scene, but fingers crossed i did it alright. if you think so then of course kudos and comments would be really very much appreciated: this is my first submission to ao3 and my first e/r fic ever, so i'd love a bit of encouragement! (✿◠‿◠)


End file.
